"How can I find you?"
"Hunt me down by smoke signals and interpretive dance."
And so he began his journey.

It was a rainy night. The dampness adding to the already grimy city. A bar light cast a nauseating shadow on the pavement in a section of town that was forgotten by society. A society that fit into a certain class, already categorized for life. But it didn't matter, he was waiting for her.
It had been months of searching, through heartache on the verge of giving up. But every time he was on the brink, he got closer.

She arrived, sunken and broken. He wanted to run to her but fear kept his feet firmly planted to the ground. She made the first move.

Many teachers appear to be sadists. I suposse it is a fitting profession for a sadist.

Wanting to leave and not being able to is the worst thing in the world.
I fear if I stay, it will overpower me.

We take so much for granted and don't even realize.

It was a warm spring day in a town who's name is unimportant, at least for the moment. It was a Sunday afternoon and the local church that centered the town was having a "jump rope for Jesus" fundraiser. The church, white with a big bell tower, shone in the blazing sun. Mothers in lawn dresses secretly boasted as they shared cake recipes and scorned their children about getting grass stains on their Sunday best.

She stood a bit off to the side, leaning against a white picket fence. The pleasant commotion that surrounded her bore her no interest. Her current worry was trying to master the one lock of hair that refused to be in unison with the others. Her hair, a color deemed strawberry blonde, was something she never took to mind. Until this very moment due to the extreme boredom that was often common in this region. But only she seemed to notice it.

Put emotion in it

As much as you can

Let it eat away at you and taunt you

and wake you up at night

That is what art is for me.

The scuff marks on the floor
Constant shifting
An awkward place to sit /with no comfort to offer
The constant crack of nearby knuckles
A throat to be cleared
Again
And again
The buzz of the lights
Necessary
But taunting
Agony
Boredom
Anger coaxed by boredom
For all these noises
Add to the constant tick of one's own mind

The artists curse goes as follows.

You create a work and work on it till you despise it, and thus, you only see its flaws while others see its beauty.

The wind was taunting the leaves as they shivered in their designated positions. The sky peered through the treetops in strewn segments, never showing its full self.
I walked down the path that was filled with invisible stories, my head seeking warmth in a scarf from my grandmother.
Despite the fact that it was noon, only a paltry amount of light reached my surrondings.
That is my attempt at poet's prose, how did I do? I guess that stuff isn't expected from a stick thin girl in skinny jeans and high tops.

Screw writers block and screw the hectic life I currently have.

It was a Sunday morning. The leaves were still wet from the midnight shower that I slept through with ease. I'm so tired. I know studies show you need eight hours. Studies don't show the average stress level of the population. Useless studies.

I know it's bad to rub at the bags under your eyes, but it's a habit I am too occupied to break.
News headlines only have the same drone as usual.